Hold Me Close: A Cinnamon Roll Box Set

by Talia Hibbert

  “Come on,” he whispered, leading her towards the bedroom they now shared. After Clarisse had been hired, Hannah had moved out of Nate’s house for almost eight months. But eventually he’d persuaded her to come back. She didn’t regret it. She didn’t believe she ever would.

  Hannah entered the room expecting some extravagant surprise, but the neat and tidy space looked the same as usual. Except, she noticed, for a little leather book sitting in the centre of the bed. Moving closer, she picked it up and realised…

  “This is a photo album.”

  “Yep,” Nate said.

  She bit her lip on a smile. “What’s in it?”

  “Three-hundred and sixty-five days.”

  Hannah arched a brow.

  “That’s how long it’s been,” he said, “since you told me I could take pictures of you.”

  Oh, fuck. “I… I forgot about that.”

  “I know you did.” He smiled, slow and sexy, leaning against the doorframe. “But I didn’t.”

  Well, crap. Looking at 365 photos of herself was not Hannah’s idea of fun, but she loved Nate’s pictures. And she loved the fact that Nate was taking pictures at all. He’d been doing so more and more ever since Shirley’s symptoms had begun to improve, and nothing made Hannah happier.

  So she wasn’t going to refuse to look. That would just be childish. But she did sit down first, just in case the sight of her own awkwardness was painful enough to bowl her over. Then she took a deep breath, opened the album, and looked at the first picture.

  She knew it was her—or rather, the palm of her outstretched hand and the inside of her wrist. The garden formed a verdant backdrop, blades of grass standing out bright and sharp against her skin. Yes, it was definitely a picture of her. But something about it seemed too perfect, too bright and alive, to be anything as mundane as a slice of reality.

  The next image was just as ethereal. The tips of her braids hung against the small of her back, dark plaits striking against her white shirt and scarlet skirt. She could see a thin band of brown skin where the two items of clothing didn’t quite meet, and even that—just plain skin—seemed somehow…

  “Magical,” she murmured. Then she looked up, the question suddenly urgent. “How do you make normal things look so magical?”

  He gave her a one-shouldered shrug, but his eyes were serious. “Maybe that’s just you.”

  “Don’t flatter me. It’s some fancy, technological photography thing.”

  His lips twitched. “No comment.”

  “Come here. Sit with me.”

  He came over slowly. When he sank on to the bed beside her, she finally realised why he seemed slightly edgy.

  So she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I like them. Thank you.”

  Something about him relaxed, even as he shook his head. “You only just started.”

  “I already know I love them all. But I suppose,” she sighed dramatically, “I’ll look through the rest. Just to make sure.”

  He laughed and tugged one of her braids. “Go on, then.”

  So she did. She flicked through 365 pictures of herself, from her lipsticked mouth to the shadow of her profile in the moonlight, to Josh’s legs dangling between hers as he sat on her lap. She saw 365 versions of herself through the eyes of a man who loved her. And when she was done, Hannah set the album carefully aside and threw herself—literally threw herself—at Nathaniel Davis.

  He caught her, obviously.

  They fell back against the bed, him laughing, her covering his face in kisses. “Hold on,” he managed to say between chuckles. “I’m not done.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. I just wanted to let you know that I’d like you to start planning your proposal. If you’re amenable.”

  Was it possible to break your own face by smiling too hard? Hannah really hoped not. “I’m definitely amenable. Enthusiastic. Eager, even.”

  His brows shot up. “You are? For real?”

  “For real.” She ran the tip of her nose over his throat, his jaw, his cheekbone. Just touching him, simply because she could. “You’re mine, and that isn’t changing. Might as well make it legal.”

  With a wicked grin, he rolled them over until his body covered hers, his hard chest pinning her against the mattress. “I’m yours?”

  “That’s right.” She pressed a kiss to his throat. “And I’m yours.”

  His answering whisper rolled over her skin like a touch. “No matter what.”

  The End.

  Next Up: What’s a little fake dating between friends? Zach and Rae are about to find out. Spending the weekend pretending to be in love is one thing—but sharing a bed is something else entirely…

  That Kind of Guy

  Ravenswood Book 3

  For the readers.

  Content Note

  Please be aware: this book contains depictions of emotional abuse and mentions of unwanted sexual encounters that could trigger certain audiences.

  1

  Zach was furious, and it felt good.

  He bent over the anvil, laser-focused, a vicious energy burning through his bloodstream. This was his molten world of metal and flame, where his anger was acceptable, even reasonable. Here, it gave him strength. And so, at work, where no-one he loved could see, he became a god of war and rage. The hammer in his hand was an extension of his body, the sweat rolling down his spine was a scream of encouragement, and watching iron bend to his will was cool oxygen in this sweltering space.

  He worked. He worked. He worked. Until his phone vibrated in his pocket, the alarm dragging him back to reality. It was time for a break. Time to face the real world for a while and become the safest version of himself: cool, cocky, calm. Mustn’t forget the calm.

  Outside, the early spring sun was choked by dull, pale clouds. He took a gulp of sharp Ravenswood air, clean and crisp even here, on the small town’s tiny industrial estate. Then he pulled out his phone and fired off a text to his mother, the same one he sent three times a day.

  Did you take your meds?

  A few minutes later, her reply came through.

  …I have now! Relax, darling. I always remember eventually. :)

  More like she always checked her texts eventually. He rolled his eyes and flicked through his notifications. The online forum he’d been lurking in for months now continued to be active, especially his favourite thread: Demis for DC, a place for demisexual members to discuss all things DC related, for no particular reason other than a love of nerdery and camaraderie.

  Zach had learned a lot about demisexuality since discovering this forum for ace and arospec people. Had felt a lot, too, reading about others’ experiences while he grappled with his own. Now he knew for sure that he was demisexual, a discussion about comic books was clearly the perfect place for him to slide in and make some… internet friends, or whatever they were called. Friends like him. Friends who got it.

  But he was still too nervous.

  Zach sighed and put his phone away. A breeze bit at his cheeks, ruffled his hair, made the sweat beneath his overshirt feel clammy and cold. He pulled off the shirt and swiped at his brow, wandering toward the low brick wall at the edge of the lot. He knew what he was waiting for, or rather, who: Rae. His morning ray of sunshine, full of smiles and fantastic stories.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of movement, a hint of colour. His mouth hooked up into a smile, though the expression didn’t come as easy as it used to. Ma’s illness was under control, and the depression that had swallowed him whole was under control, too, but Zach still felt distant sometimes—like a faint photocopy of himself. Still, for his friends, he tried.

  But it turned out, the person walking toward him wasn’t exactly a friend. Not anymore. And it certainly wasn’t Rae.

  Callista Michaelson was all graceful movement and bold contrasts: pink coat, blue eyes, hair like summer wheat, topped off by a genuine, beauty pageant smile. He hadn’t seen her in ages, but once—before Ma’s diagnosis had rearran
ged his life—she’d been someone he knew. He wasn’t sure he knew her anymore.

  Still, he leaned lazily against the wall and gave her his usual grin. “Hey, Cal.”

  “Hey, Zach.” She stopped and mirrored his posture, her arm coming to rest beside his. Familiar mischief lit her gaze, and she ran her fingers playfully over his wrist. His stomach tightened, and not in a good way. He’d slept with Callie three times, back when he didn’t understand himself. Before he’d vowed to stop hurting himself on other people’s lust. Before he’d abandoned his twisted attempts to seem ‘normal’.

  For her part, Callista liked decent guys who gave decent orgasms, and there weren’t many to choose from in this town.

  “What are you doing out here?” she asked, arching a brow toward the grim facade of the forge. “Is Daniel being a nightmare again?”

  “He keeps to himself, these days,” Zach said dryly. “I think he’s on thin ice with daddy.” That was the trouble with men who had the world handed to them: someone could always take it away. Daniel Burne, town sweetheart and bona fide human shit stain, was learning that the hard way.

  “Then why are you out here in the cold wearing that?” Callie’s eyes slid over the thin, white vest plastered to Zach’s torso with sweat. She didn’t seem to mind the view.

  He resisted the urge to put his overshirt back on. “Gets hot in the forge.”

  “I bet.” Her fingers climbed higher and higher on his arm, gliding over the art inked into his skin. Her touch felt more like the slow creep of a spider. He tried not to flinch. It was funny: people used to call Zach a freak, a weirdo obsessed with comic books and cartoons. Now he wore his heroes on his biceps in greyscale, and women like Callie called him a hot nerd. Whatever the fuck that meant.

  At least there was no confusion over what this meant: the look in her eyes, the tease in her touch, white teeth sinking into her plump lower lip. Shit. Rejecting a woman really wasn’t his idea of fun—but he’d made himself a promise, recently. One designed to break his habit of handing out Yeses he didn’t mean. Zach had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t sleep with a woman again unless he really, truly wanted her. No exceptions. “Cal,” he said, catching her hand. “I, uh…”

  She smiled and pulled away. “No?”

  Relief. “No.”

  “I hear you’re saying no to everyone, these days.”

  Which wasn’t like him, hence the gossip. There was a question in Callie’s eyes, one he’d seen a thousand times before. Briefly, he considered answering.

  You see, a while back, I thought my mother was dying, so I had a come-to-Jesus moment and explored the sexuality I’ve always tried to ignore. I am now unapologetically demisexual, which means no more sleeping with women I don’t want just because it seems like I should.

  Of course, she probably wouldn’t know what demisexual meant—he hadn’t, for a long time—and the thought of defining it made him want to take a three-year nap. So he kept his mouth shut.

  After a moment, Callie let it go.

  “Well,” she said brightly, “I’m glad I caught you, anyway.”

  For a moment, he thought, Caught me? But she kept talking, so his mind moved on.

  “I have a problem, Zach,” she said, shooting a glare behind her—where, around the corner, Ravenswood’s only mechanic had set up shop years ago. “I’ve been down here once a week for months, now. Months. And bloody Joe still can’t fix my car properly.”

  Zach knew Callie well enough to realise she was exaggerating. Still, he nodded sympathetically. “What’s up?”

  “Well, if only I knew!” She threw up her hands. “First, it’s a coolant issue, then it’s the head gasket, then, actually, no, it’s an electrical fault. Honestly, we need a new mechanic around here. You should’ve taken over. You were always so good at that stuff.”

  Yeah, well, necessity was the mother of every skill Zach had. Growing up poor with a busy single parent and a missing older brother had led him to learn a lot of practical shit at a very young age. The hard way. And those skills had never been allowed to fade, because once someone identified you as useful, they’d always be around to… well, use you.

  Callie was giving him this hopeful, lip-biting look that might’ve made him dizzy, if he was allosexual—if he developed attraction without an emotional connection. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t. Gorgeous as Callie was, she didn’t make him feel a damn thing below the belt. What he did feel was a familiar tug in his chest, that nagging pull he always experienced when faced with someone who needed something. It was an urgent whisper he couldn’t ignore: You’re the only one people can rely on. That makes it your duty to help.

  “I’ll take a look at the car for you,” he said. He had a job, a sick mother, and a life, but sure, why the fuck not? Somehow, in the middle of all that, he’d fix Callie Michaelson’s car—even though he hadn’t seen her in a century.

  The uncharitable thought, so unlike him, brought a slight frown to Zach’s face.

  Callie didn’t seem to notice. She clasped her hands together and beamed, “Oh, I knew you would! You are such a sweetheart.” Then she flung her arms around his neck, which must have been uncomfortable, since there was a brick fucking wall separating their bodies. But she did it anyway.

  She left pretty quick after that, which was, frankly, a relief. It took Zach a few deep, careful breaths to ease the prickling discomfort Callie had left behind, but he managed. He’d been managing more and more, lately. Once he was calm, he loitered for a few more minutes, knowing his break was over, hating that he was behind schedule, but oddly eager to see Rae. For some reason, after that high-pressure exchange, he was starving for another woman’s absent-minded smile. And eventually, his patience was rewarded. She came.

  He heard her before he saw her: that slow clip of booted feet, accompanied by the gentle pad of heavy paws. Then they rounded a corner and came into view: Duke—a huge, fluffy beast who claimed to be a dog but was clearly part bear—and Duke’s human. Rae.

  She wandered closer, more tugged along by Duke than actually walking, her dark eyes distant as she stared into space. She was dreaming up stories, as always, and this one must’ve been good, because she had a crooked little smile on her face. The left side of her mouth tilted up; the right side barely moved. He’d always assumed that had something to do with the three dark scars that swept across her temple, over her cheek, and along her jaw.

  And, speaking of cheeks—hers were reddened beneath the brown sugar of her skin, as was the tip of her nose. She wasn’t wearing a big, wool coat like Callie; just jeans and a jacket way too thin for this early spring morning. She was cold. He never did like to see Rae cold.

  So he called, “Hey. Would it kill you to put on a scarf, or something?”

  She blinked, focusing on him. Deep smile lines fanned from the corners of her tip-tilted eyes, and a corresponding warmth flared inside his chest. “Piss off, Davis,” she said cheerfully. “You’re practically naked, yourself.”

  “Don’t act like you’re complaining.” He paused, just to enjoy the hell out of her derisive snort. “Anyway, I spent all morning in a forge. What’s your excuse?”

  She was beside him now, only the bricks between them. Her arms rested alongside his, just like Callie’s had, but she didn’t touch. “There’s nothing wrong with my outfit, you unrepentant nag. I’m supposed to be the old lady around here.”

  “Old lady.” He rolled his eyes, indignant. “Shut up.”

  Duke chose that moment to rise up on his hind legs and give Zach some love over the wall, his tongue lolling happily. His tiny, teddy bear eyes twinkled like dots of midnight. He might as well have said, I’m here too, you know.

  “Morning, mate.” Zach sank his hands wrist-deep into thick, chestnut fur.

  “Shameless,” Rae muttered. “He’s absolutely throwing himself at you. Where’s your pride, Duke?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t get,” Zach said.

  She gave a low, dry chuckle that was music to his
ears. Rae never took him seriously. It was his favourite thing about her.

  And his second favourite thing—the reason he’d hung about waiting for her and made himself late—was her mind. By which he meant, obviously, her stories. “You got anymore drama for me?” His tone was hopeful, almost wheedling, but he didn’t really care. It had been days since the last installment; he wanted to know what was going on in Rae’s fantasy world of witchcraft and betrayal.

  But she shook her head, frowning slightly. “Nothing new today. Sorry.” She sighed, and the worry in her voice pricked something protective in him. “This book isn’t coming easy.”

  He’d never heard her say that before. Of course, they weren’t exactly life-long friends: his brother’s girlfriend had introduced them last summer, which felt like forever ago, but wasn’t. Still, the idea of his daydreamer struggling with stories seemed… wrong.

  He leaned closer, narrowing his eyes like clues might be written beneath her skin. He didn’t find anything, but for a moment, he caught her scent on the breeze: lemon and sugar pancakes. Zach breathed deeper. He loved pancakes. “Writer’s block?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t believe in writer’s block.”

  For some reason—maybe the prim way she said it—he chuckled. She was so fucking cute, sometimes, and she didn’t even know it.

  She tutted at his laughter, pointing a finger at him. “Positive words, positive mind! Or… something. My dad used to say that. Don’t call it writer’s block, is my point. You’ll jinx me.”

  “Sure, yeah.” The words might be more convincing if he could stop laughing.

  “Oh, shut up. Someone should get you a muzzle. I should get you a muzzle. What do you think, Duke?” She looked down at her mammoth dog, whose head was level with her waist. And Rae wasn’t a small woman.